Kitabı oku: «The Wizard of West Penwith: A Tale of the Land's-End», sayfa 19

CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE UNEXPECTED MEETING AND MYSTERIOUS COMMUNICATION

While the gentlemen were holding their consulation at Pendrea-house, the ladies of the establishment were variously occupied. Mrs. Pendrea was superintending the cooking of some nice little sweet dish for a poor sick child in the neighbourhood, and the two young ladies were seemingly playing at hide-and-seek with one another, and wandering from room to room, in hopes of hearing something, or of catching a sight of their lovers; while Alrina was left alone to meditate on her sad fate.

She had not been alone long, however, before the door was opened cautiously, and a servant entered, and closing the door after her in a very mysterious way, and, approaching the couch on which Alrina was resting, she put her finger on her lips, as much as to say, "Be silent," and gave Alrina a slip of paper on which was written, or rather scrawled, hastily in pencil —

"Dearest Alrina. – I am wretched, – miserable! Grant me an interview for a few minutes. I have something of the greatest importance to communicate. I will be in the garden at the back of the house as soon as the other gentlemen are gone. I shall go out with them to prevent suspicion, and return on some pretence. The faithful bearer of this will assist you and let you know when.

"Adieu – my dearest love,

"Frederick."

When her attendant saw the agitation into which the young lady was thrown, on the perusal of this scrap of paper, her former conjectures were confirmed, and she determined to do her best to assist the two lovers. She had a sympathetic feeling, and she retired to the window under pretence of putting the blind straight, while Alrina perused, and reperused, these few pencilled lines, so dear to her. She thought but a few hours ago that she had overcome every feeling but that of duty and honor, and that she could look upon him whom she so dearly loved, as a brother. It was for his good that she had decided on this course; and she believed that she should have firmness and courage to carry it out to the end; and but a short time ago she felt so strong in her mind and will, that she wished to see him once more to tell him so again. But she then feared that no opportunity would ever offer, and that she should never see him again to explain to him fully the state; of her mind, and her real motives of action; for she felt that she had wronged him in what she had said, and wounded his feelings when she told him she could not love him. She knew she ought not to have said that; but what else could she say? Her father was alive then, and might recover; she could not tell her lover of her father's faults and crimes; and what was she to do? Now, that he was dead, all was known, and Frederick believed, she must now know all too, and she could now tell him why she could not marry him; and she wished and longed to see him once more – only once more – and now the opportunity had come; it might never come again. But her heart failed her; she could not see him and tell him calmly that they must part for ever, and explain her reasons fully, so as to make him understand clearly what she meant. No, she could not do this; and yet she felt that she must see him once more. So she decided on obeying the promptings of her heart; and calling the maid to her, she said she wished to be informed when the gentlemen left, and then she would walk in the back garden a little. It was not at all necessary to explain anything further to that shrewd girl, for she immediately saw how things stood, and managed accordingly.

The Pendrea ladies were summoned to the drawing-room, almost immediately after the departure of the gentlemen, to entertain Captain and Mrs. Courland and their niece, who had come to return the call the squire and his lady had made on them a few days before at Penzance, where they had taken lodgings. Nothing could be better for the interview between the lovers.

Grace, the go-between, as she styled herself, was delighted. She immediately went to Alrina's room, and informed her that all was ready, and that the coast was clear; which information rather astonished the young lady, – for she could not conceive how Grace should know that she wanted the coast clear; unless Frederick had told her more than she thought was prudent. However, she had made up her mind to go through with it; and, having put on her bonnet and shawl, which the prudent Grace had brought with her, followed her conductress into the garden, when Grace shewed her prudence again by withdrawing and leaving the two lovers to themselves.

Alrina trembled at the thought of the terrible trial she was about to go through, and her heart throbbed at every step as she walked down the narrow pathway of the little garden, which was at the very back of the house, secluded from view and sheltered by high walls, with no window to overlook it, although, when you were inside, every part of it was exposed enough, for the trees were very few and stunted.

Frederick had not arrived, evidently, unless he was concealed in the little arbour at the bottom of the garden. Alrina walked down to it and looked in. No, he was not there, – something had detained him, no doubt. She waited, and waited, and walked up and down; still he did not come. She was getting cold. She climbed up so as to look over the wall, but could see nothing of him; and now she began to think he had deceived her. He had taken this course to be revenged for the insult she had offered him, when she told him – he to whom she had so often before avowed the fondest love – that she could not love him. Yes; he had indeed been revenged, and she felt that she deserved it all.

But hark! she hears a footstep approaching towards the garden-door. Her ears are quick; they have been listening intensely for some time. Yes! it must be. She rushes towards the door, and is caught in the arms of two lovely girls.

"Alrina, you naughty girl," exclaimed Blanch, "how could you be so imprudent as to come out in this cold wind?

"Alrina!" exclaimed the young lady; "can it be possible? you, here! – and have I found you at last, my darling schoolfellow!" And the two girls, in their gushing love, embraced most lovingly and affectionately; and then there were explanations to be given and rereceived, and Blanche led the way into Alrina's room, where Julia informed Blanche how they had been at school together, and how her brother Frederick had fallen in love with Alrina, when she was out walking, and how she had carried letters and messages between them, and how her brother had searched for Alrina everywhere, when he returned from abroad, and had written her to search everywhere for his lost lady-love too; and kissing Alrina, in her girlish way, she said, "Oh! how glad Frederick will be to find you here."

Alrina could do nothing but kiss her friend, in return for all her kind expressions and caresses. What could she say? She felt glad – very glad – to see her old schoolfellow; but, under the circumstances, it was mixed up with too much pain and sorrow to give her any permanent pleasure.

Very soon Julia was summoned to attend her uncle and aunt on their return to Penzance. They had taken a very substantial lunch while the three girls had been having their tête-à-tête.

Captain Courland and his party had travelled by easy stages, for they had come all the way in their own carriage with post-horses. It was one of those old lumbering carriages intended to hold six inside – a regular family coach.

"Well, ladies," said the Captain, as he seated himself; "I wish you would take pattern by Mrs. Pendray; she had no hoops, nor farthingales on, – a plain homely woman. No nonsense, – everything above board."

"Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. Courland; "a very pleasant, agreeable, little woman, as I have met with for a long time; but in the country they are not always dressed for receiving visitors."

"And didn't you like Blanche, aunt?" asked Julia; "she is such a dear girl."

"A nice little girl enough, I dare say," said the captain, answering the question for his wife; "but her elder sister seemed to snub her, I thought. 'Shiver my mizen,' thinks I, I'd haul down your topgallant sails, miss, if I were your father."

"My dear," said Mrs. Courland, "I wish you would try to forget your sea terms when you are in the society of ladies. I observed Miss Pendray looking at you with astonishment several times, when you were giving out some of your elegant expressions."

"I wish the squire had been home," replied her husband, without noticing the remarks of his wife; for he was accustomed to these rebukes, – not that she said them or meant them ill-naturedly, but she inherited her mother's aristocratic notions, and could not endure anything approaching to vulgarity or coarseness. She had not had very much of her husband's society in former years, for he was only at home for a few months at a time, and then his time was very much occupied, being the principal owner of the ship he commanded. But, now he had nothing to do, and was at home constantly, so that his elegant and accomplished wife had more frequent opportunities of experiencing his rough sailor-like manner; not that he was at all a coarse-minded man, – it was only his manner, which he had naturally imbibed from the persons he was obliged to come into such close contact with on board ship. He was naturally kind-hearted in the extreme, and would do any good that lay in his power for a fellow creature in distress; but he couldn't overcome his habit of using nautical expressions, nor indeed did he try to now. He did try at first, years ago, to speak a little more "dandified," as he called it, to please his beautiful wife; but he found it too hard to accomplish, and so he gave up trying, and contented himself with listening to her lectures, good-humouredly, which he said came in at one ear and went out at the other: and so he had listened patiently now to her remarks, and then continued the conversation as if nothing had been said on the "vexed" subject by his sensitive wife.

"I wish the squire had been home," said he; "he's a jolly fellow. I hate to be stuck up with a parcel of palavering women, and be obliged to sit bolt upright in my chair and take out every word and look at it before I speak, or else be hauled over the coals for it."

"I'm sure you behaved very well to day, uncle," said Julia; "I saw Miss Pendray looking at you several times, as if she admired your blunt, straightforward manners."

"Did you?" replied the captain, looking rather pleased; "I looked at her too when she got round to the starboard-tack. Brace my rigging, says I to myself; but you're as tight and well built a frigate from stem to stern as ever I clap'd my two eyes upon, save one."

"It was well you put in that saving clause, uncle," said Julia, laughing; "or you would have made Aunt Courland jealous."

"No, no," said the captain, taking his wife's hand affectionately, "I'm a rough knot; but if she never makes me jealous, I shall never make her so. Everything is upright and downright and aboveboard with me. No secrets from my wife, no, no; and I don't think she has any secrets or mysteries from me, although we do have a breeze now and then about the lingo."

"Talking of mysteries," said Julia, turning to her aunt; "who do you think I met at Pendrea? You'll never guess, so I may as well tell you. Why, no other than my old friend and schoolfellow, Alrina."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Courland; "you quite surprise me, where did she come from? – how did she get there?"

"I don't know," replied Julia; "for just as I was about to enquire all the particulars, I was summoned to attend you."

"Has Frederick seen her, or does he know she is there," asked Mrs. Courland, with more than her usual energy.

"I know no more than I have told you," replied Julia; "I only met her a short time before we left; for Blanche and I had been wandering over the curious old house, and we were just going to have a peep at what they call their garden, when Alrina came rushing out to meet us. I was struck with her peculiar beauty at once, for I didn't at first know her until Blanche mentioned her name. She was but a girl when I knew her at school; she has now grown a beautiful woman, – oh! so beautiful, Aunt, and so fair, with that auburn hair which you admire so much. I have seen someone very like her, but I can't remember who it is. The expression of her countenance when she met us, was so like an expression I have seen in some one before; but who it is I cannot remember, – it was so strange."

"We must ask the family to visit us at Penzance, my dear, and bring this wonderful stranger with them," said Mrs. Courland, thoughtfully; "I should like to know something more about her, and where she has been hiding so long, that no trace of her could be found."

"Oh! yes, Aunt," said Julia; "for the sake of Frederick, I'm glad she is found again; he was so passionately devoted to her."

"For his sake, perhaps, it would have been better if she had never crossed our paths again," replied Mrs. Courland, talking to herself rather than to her companions; "but the destiny of all must be fulfilled. There is some mystery about this girl, – I am convinced there is."

"So am I," replied Julia; "and I shall not rest till I have found it out."

"Mystery!" exclaimed Captain Courland, in a voice which startled the two ladies; "I hate mysteries. Everything open and aboveboard, say I, – there's no occasion for mystery. I'd throw the lubber overboard, and let him sink into Davy Jones's locker, if he didn't out with it at once, whatever it was. 'Speak the truth and shame the devil,' – that's my motto. I'll have no mysteries hid from me – no matter who it is – overboard he'll go – damn me!"

This outbreak was so sudden and so unexpected, that it made the two ladies feel very uncomfortable, especially the elder lady, whose conscience smote her, and made her feel that, some day, the secret she was keeping so rigidly from her husband might be revealed to him, and then all her happiness would be gone. For she now saw, from this sudden outburst of feeling, how angry he could be, and to what lengths he could carry his vengeance, if he ever found out that terrible secret, and discovered how long he had been deceived. It was a dreadful thought and she shuddered at it, and lay trembling in the corner of the carriage, while Julia, having no such pricks of conscience, and being, on the whole, more amused than otherwise at the Captain's burst of passion, apparently without a cause, answered him in his own language as far as she could: for she believed that it was only a reminiscence of something that might have happened on board ship, that had so roused him; and turning to him, with a laughing eye, she said, —

"There's rough weather where you're sailing, Captain, I believe."

"Rough!" said he: "yes; – but rough or smooth, I'll have the whole of the crew overhauled from the first mate down to the loplolly-boy; I'll make a clean sweep. Mysteries, indeed, on board my ship!"

"Why, whatever do you mean, Uncle?" said Julia, now getting alarmed in right earnest.

"Why! this is what I mean," replied he searching his pockets; "I'd forgotten all about it, till you began to talk about mysteries and such nonsense. When I went out to have a look about the place there, after lunch, a queer-looking 'son of a gun' came and gave me this letter, and cut off again as if the devil was at his heels. Now, you just read that, and see if I haven't enough to make me look out for squalls! what the devil is the meaning of it? I don't know!"

Julia took the letter from her uncle, and read the contents – first to herself and then aloud: —

"Noble Captain. – A secret mystery, which now hangs over you and your's, is about to be revealed; but fear nothing; be firm, and bear it as a brave sailor ought to do, and it will add to your happiness: – but should you be led away by passion, or weakness, and receive it otherwise, misery and woe will be the portion of you and your's for ever. Bide your time – you will have further notice.

"A Friend, – who was formerly an Enemy."

Julia read this strange epistle through two or three times, and so intent was she in endeavouring to discover what it could mean, and who the writer could be, that she did not notice the agitation of Mrs. Courland, and the anguish of mind she was suffering as she lay half concealed in the corner of the carriage; and the captain was too much engrossed with his own irritating thoughts to pay any attention to anyone else. So the poor lady was not disturbed by anything but her own thoughts until they arrived at their lodgings, when she rushed upstairs and gave vent to her feelings, harrowing up the most dreadful consequences from this revelation, which she had no doubt was that of her own secret. But, when she became more calm, and began to reflect a little, she saw how absurd it was of her to anticipate evil so readily. She had forgotten, in her haste, that she was now many, many miles away from anyone who could possibly know her secret, and, as she became calm again, she thought how very foolish she had been, – but so it is – an evil conscience will start at a shadow. When the mind is constantly brooding over one subject, and that, the consciousness of a crime committed, the guilty perpetrator of the deed fears to look an upright, honest man in the face; for he has the feeling that his breast is transparently open to his gaze if he only gives him the opportunity to look in: and so he slinks away, fearing that, in an unguarded moment, the transparency may be penetrated. Just so did Mrs. Courland feel when she heard her husband speak in those terrible and decided tones of his horror of secrets and mysteries, well knowing that she was keeping one from him in her own bosom which she ought to have told him long ago. And then that letter! Could it be that her secret was about to be revealed? She would have given worlds to know: it would be a relief to know even the worst: – the suspense was dreadful.

Every moment, during the latter part of their drive home, she expected her husband would say that he knew all, and denounce her as a faithless deceitful wife. She had consented to come into Cornwall, thinking that she would be here removed from any chance of a discovery, but she found, to her sorrow, that her guilt followed her even here – at least, so she believed in her weak and self-accusing mind.

CHAPTER XL.
MISS PENDRAY'S SINGULAR ACCIDENT

Alrina thought her cup of misery had been full long ago: but here was another drop added to it. She was now fully convinced that Frederick had taken her at her word and given her up, and, to be revenged of her treatment of him, had induced her to come out into the garden, merely to shew her that he could be as indifferent to her feelings as she had been to his; and now Blanche knew her secret love, and would of course tell it to all the family; and Julia would return, no doubt, and endeavour to renew their former friendship until she discovered who she was, and what her miserable father had been, and then she would spurn her.

Blanche returned to her after the visitors had departed, and began the usual good-humoured badinage which passes between young ladies when a secret love is discovered: she spoke in a playful manner at first: for she did not know how serious it was, and she intended, if Alrina had placed confidence in her, and told her, as a friend, of her secret love, to have imparted to Alrina, in return, her own sorrows; and she was surprised and grieved to find that, although she could see clearly there was something very much amiss which preyed on Alrina's mind, yet her friend did not seem to have sufficient confidence in her to tell her what it was; so, to gain Alrina's confidence, in some degree, she told her own secret first. It took a long time in the telling, although there was not really much to tell; but it was the theme on which she had been dwelling for weeks, and weeks, and as it was uppermost in her own thoughts, she fancied it must be interesting in its minutest details to everyone else. She had never spoken of it before to a single human being, and now that she had commenced, and found, as she thought, a willing and attentive listener, she dwelt on every trifling incident.

Alrina's thoughts were otherwise engaged, but she sympathised with the gentle confiding creature who was pouring her thoughts and feelings into her ear, and, when she had told her tale, Alrina said: —

"My dearest Blanche, there is some misunderstanding in all this – someone has poisoned your father's mind: let some mutual friend but come between and explain, and all will be well. But my love, alas! is past all healing! It cannot be! it cannot be!" and she burst into a flood of tears, which Blanche tried in vain to assuage.

Early in the evening, Squire Pendray returned, bringing Mr. Morley with him, for the latter believed that his brother had remained behind at Pendrea-house for some private reason of his own, instead of following them to Portagnes; and, moreover, Mr. Morley was very anxious to see Miss Pendray once more, after having been absent from her so long. He had not, it is true, pointedly asked her the question, but he had seen sufficient of her to believe that his attentions were appreciated by her, and that he had a fair chance of being accepted, should he venture on that important step: and this step would have been taken long ago, but for his anxiety to secure the vile wretches who had so stained the character of his father, and brought him to an untimely end. He had spoken to the squire on the subject, during their ride home, and although he was rather inclined to get on his stilts again at first, believing that Mr. Morley had been trifling with his daughter's feelings, yet, when all was explained, he promised that if Mr. Morley and his daughter could make matters up, as he termed it, he would not object. And, while the squire went to acquaint his wife with the result of the day's search, Mr. Morley went in search of the fair creature whose charms had so entirely enthralled him: and so sure did he feel that his brother Frederick had returned to Pendrea, and was there comfortably ensconced, that he did not even enquire for him when he returned. Oh! Cupid! Cupid! thou little perverter of men's thoughts and tormentor of women's minds!

Alrina had scarcely recovered herself when Mrs. Pendray entered the room and told the two young girls the whole story of the mysterious disappearance of Alrina's father, and the fruitless search which had been made for him by the gentlemen that day: the squire thought it best that Alrina should be told the whole now, as there seemed no chance of their being able to discover the body, or the parties who were concerned in taking it away. This news came upon her so suddenly, that she could scarcely realize it. That her father possessed more shrewdness and knowledge than most other people she fully believed; but she did not believe in his being possessed of any supernatural power, as many in the neighbourhood did; and she therefore thought that the body had been removed by some of his wicked assistants, to gratify some private end of their own. Instead of giving way to tears again, she merely asked the favor of being left alone for the remainder of the night, that she might think on what course would be best for her to pursue under the circumstances; and, so earnestly did she urge this, that her friends were prevailed on to yield to her wishes, and she was left to her own meditations. The gentle Blanche was very loth to leave her thus, after the mutual understanding that had so lately sprung up between them; but, as Alrina assured her that she required repose and meditation after the excitement she had undergone, and that she should be better in the morning, her kind friends retired, begging her at the same time, to summon the domestics if she found she required anything more before they retired for the night.

Mr. Morley sought Miss Pendray every where, in doors and out, but she was no where to be found. One of the servants had seen her go out soon after Captain Courland and his party left; but no one had seen her since. – She had not returned.

This, however, was not at all unusual; she often wandered out alone, and stayed away for hours. No one took much notice of her eccentricities.

Mr. Morley enquired where she was likely to have gone. No one could tell: she might be gone to the Logan-Rock; or she might be, even then, sitting on one of the lofty rocks above Lamorna Cove, where she sometimes sat for hours watching the waves; or she might even be gone on so far as Tol-pedn-Penwith. – It was very uncertain which route she might have taken. One thing, however, the household were pretty certain about, – she was on the high cliffs somewhere, for she seldom went underneath.

Mr. Morley was determined to find her, and bring his suit to an issue at once; and he thought that, if he could have the good fortune to meet her alone on one of those distant headlands, he would have ample time to say all he had to say during the walk back; so he started in pursuit.

Miss Pendray's proud spirit could not brook the repeated slights to which she had been subjected by Mr. Morley, as she thought, and the indifference with which he had treated her: he had been at Pendrea-house again, and had not thought proper to see her or even to inquire for her. So, as soon as Captain Courland and his party were gone, she went out in no very amiable mood, and walked along the edge of the highest cliffs at a brisk pace; and so absorbed was she in thought, that she did not seem to notice the wild scenery, which generally had such attractions for her, nor did she think of the distance she was walking, until she found herself standing on one of the highest and most dangerous of the headlands to be found on that part of the coast, many miles from Pendrea-house, and no great distance from Tol-pedn-Penwith. She had, by this time, worked herself up to such a pitch of anger and disappointment, that she did not see her dangerous position. As she thought of the treatment she had received, she stamped her foot indignantly, and, in doing so, the crumbling rock on which she was standing gave way, and, with a shriek, she fell with it; but, fortunately, there happened to be a ledge of rocks a few yards down, standing out from the cliffs, which broke her fall and saved her from being engulphed in a watery grave, if she was not dashed in pieces by the fall from that great height. She was stunned by the shock, and lay insensible for some minutes on the narrow slip of rock which had so far saved her life. When she recovered her senses again she was afraid to move, lest this rock should give way too; and she shuddered as she looked down on the foaming water, which dashed against the rocks some hundred feet beneath her. And there she lay, in unspeakable terror, fearing that the next moment she might be precipitated into the abyss below.

Dreadful suspense! she had scarcely ever known what fear was until now. The shades of evening were fast gathering round her, and the fear of having to remain all night on that dread spot roused her, and something of her wonted courage returned. Looking about, she saw that the ledge of rock on which she was lying appeared to be the entrance into a cavern; but how large it was, or whether it was merely a chasm in the rock extending down to the sea, she did not know. She crept cautiously in, feeling her way, as she went. For several feet she found the rocks hard and firm; here she could rest securely. She sat and looked out on the broad ocean before her; and the more she reflected on her awful situation, the more disheartened did she feel. She saw nothing before her but a lingering death. No boat could approach the rocks underneath; indeed she could not be seen, unless she ventured out on that narrow ledge of rock again. When she had rested herself a little, she explored a little further, creeping cautiously along in the dark cavern. At last she thought she saw a light. She stopped, and looked around. The cavern was dark, except just at the entrance; but these lights seemed to be coming from the further end. She crept on a little further, and was at last convinced that this light came from some opening in the interior; but whether it came from above or below she could not tell; – perhaps it came from below. There was probably, she thought, a deep chasm running down to the sea from the interior of the cavern, and if she ventured too near she might be in danger of falling through. She crept a little nearer, and then sat on a rock to meditate on her position, keeping her eyes steadily fixed on this faint stream of light at the extremity. She was now begining to feel cold and uncomfortable; her delicate hands and arms were lacerated by the rocks, and her fingers were sore from holding on to them so firmly: in her fear and anxiety for her safety, she did not feel these injuries before, but now her scratches and bruises were beginning to make themselves felt, and there she sat in the greatest agony, both of body and mind.